“It usually does. I’ll get on that, then.”
WITH THE GIRLS eating lunch in town and Alastair away, it was the perfect time to take a closer look at the commune. I parked my bike in a wooded area nearby, then headed in the back way. Once I was sure that the drive was empty and the lights all off, I approached the front gate, to get a better look at the symbol. It was there—and had been repainted.
I licked my finger and smudged a line. Yep, blood. Likely chicken blood, if someone was practicing Santeria.
I eyed the house wistfully. As rustic as it appeared, I was sure it had a burglar alarm. Disarming it wouldn’t leave me much time for searching before Megan came back. And I figured I had just as good a chance of finding evidence of rituals out here.
I went through the outbuildings. Met some chickens, a couple of cows, even a pig. No horses, though, which seemed a complete waste of barn space. I did manage to make friends with a barn cat. Or it made friends with me.
I’m not a pet person—even with horses, I’ve never seriously considered owning one—but you have to give cats kudos for attitude. If you stop to pet them, they can’t be bothered with you. Ignore them, and they rise to the challenge. By the time I was done searching the outbuildings, the cat had brought me a gift—a still-twitching rat. I was impressed. I rewarded it with an ear scratch, and it took off, mission accomplished.
That was the only reward I got, though. A half hour of searching, and all I had to show for it was shit on my boots.
There was one other outbuilding behind the barns. It was locked, which seemed promising, until I opened it and found tools and a lawn tractor. I checked out the yard next. Vegetable garden, herb garden, even a couple of beehives behind the toolshed. So very Little House on the Prairie. Why anyone would choose to live like this was beyond me.
I was checking out the hives when I noticed the boarded-up window above them. That made me realize I hadn’t seen a boarded-up window from the inside ... and that the toolshed looked a lot bigger from out here.
I went back in. Sure enough, there was a false wall. And behind it? A sacrificial altar. Not for human sacrifice—Santerians don’t practice that. I’ve been well schooled in basic respect for religions, courtesy of Paige. Not that she always practices what she preaches—I recall a certain incident with naked Wiccans in our backyard—but she handled it more respectfully than I would have, and she would point out it’d been a small sect, not indicative of the religion as a whole.
Santeria is a Caribbean religion melding African, Catholic, and Native American traditions. Its rituals include the sacrifice of animals. There was evidence of that here—a small ornate axe and bloodstains on the floor. There were also coins, oils, flowers, herbs, colored cloth, stones, beads, even a set of dominos, for rituals of a less bloody sort.
A lamp burned on a table. It was a clay pot of oil with stuff floating in it and a wick on top. I could make out ashes and metal in the oil. Beside it lay a dead scorpion coated in oil.
I took pictures, sent them to Adam, then called.
“Now that you actually need my help, I can’t get rid of you,” he said when he answered.
“I just sent you—”
“Photos. I’m looking at them now. With the scorpion, we seem to have another home-protection ritual, this one specifically to keep away enemies. The oil has to burn for a few days, and most of it’s still there. You were up at the house yesterday, weren’t you?”
“So this ritual is to protect them from me? Cool. Doesn’t work, though.”
“I can’t imagine anything that would. So we definitely have someone practicing Santeria. Presumably someone high on the group’s food chain. One of the girls isn’t going to construct a hidden room in the toolshed.”
“I know Santeria doesn’t condone human sacrifice, but if we’re dealing with a wannabe, maybe they’re bending the rules. If chickens don’t work, try dead girls. Any link with the crime-scene stuff?”
“That bead Claire was clutching could be significant for the pewter or from the symbolism. Could even be a cheap stand-in for silver. I’ll keep looking. Anything else?”
“No, Jesse’s doing the background checks.”
“Got the guys doing the grunt work, huh?”
“After years of doing it for you, Paige, and Lucas, I’m liking this a whole lot better.”
“Just don’t get used to it.”
EVIDENCE OF SANTERIA did not mean we’d found our killer, any more than if I’d found evidence of a Catholic mass. But these ritualistic religions did attract fringe types who misunderstood the beliefs and focused on the occultlike aspects.
Now I needed to figure out who was the practitioner. The best place to find evidence of that would be in the house. If there was an alarm, I’d be out of luck, but I could always hope they were the sort who left without turning it on.
Even better—the back door was latched but not locked. I eased it open, bracing for the squeal of an alarm. Silence. I slipped in and looked around. I found a security panel, but it was green. Unarmed.
As I crept into the hall, a phone rang. On the third ring, it stopped. I paused, expecting an answering machine.
“Hello?” A man’s voice. Alastair. Shit. That’s why the door was open and the alarm off.
The voice came from the front of the house. I cast a blur spell, and began a slow retreat to the kitchen door. That sleep spell would have come in really handy right about now. Damn. I needed to find a cemetery.
“Ice cream, huh?” He laughed. “No, that’s fine. They could use the break and I could use the peace and quiet to finish this ledger. Take as long as you want, Meg.”
Okay, he was busy in his office and the girls were enjoying after-lunch ice cream.
I took off my boots, cast another blur spell, and zipped up the stairs, boots in hand. Padding around in socks, I searched all six bedrooms. The closest thing to talismans I found were a four-leaf clover pendant on a dresser and a dream catcher hanging in a window. For drugs, I only found a stash of pot and a cache of diet pills. Whoever was practicing Santeria was keeping it out of the house.
I headed back downstairs. As I passed the living room, the doorbell rang. I darted into the living room, dove behind an armchair, and cast a cover spell. As long as I didn’t move, I’d be okay.
When Alastair opened the door, I recognized the visitor’s voice. Tiffany Radu.
“I met your new girl in town,” she said. “She gave me a coupon for a dozen cookies. Getting a little bold, aren’t you? It would be much easier to call.”
Alastair laughed. “I wish I could take the credit, but no, Megan must have given Amy those to hand out. A nice way to introduce herself. Come in, please.”
Tiffany pushed the baby buggy into the living room and returned to the hall.
“So, do you want those cookies?” he asked.
“Is that the only thing on the menu?”
A chuckle. Then a crash, like a body hitting a wall. I jumped, startling the baby, who stared at me, her blue eyes wide. From the hall came a grunt, then the whir of a zipper. A groan. A sucking noise. Another groan.
Okay, no one was getting killed. And I would have been less surprised if someone was.
The baby craned her head, trying to see her mother. I really hoped she couldn’t. Seeing Mom blowing a guy who isn’t your dad really isn’t an experience any kid needs imprinted on her young memory.
I slid from behind the chair and tugged the buggy toward me until I was certain the baby couldn’t see Tiffany. It’s a sad day when I’m more concerned for a child than her mother is.
The baby started whimpering now. There was no way Tiffany could hear her—Alastair was too vocal in his appreciation. When a baby isn’t heard, though, a baby gets louder, and I didn’t want them coming in here.
I murmured an incantation. A light ball appeared on my fingertips. The baby’s eyes rounded. I tossed it to hover over her buggy and she giggled and crowed.
“Mama, Mama!” she said, bouncin
g as I made the light ball dance.
Tiffany really needed to work on her parenting skills if her kid adopted the first stranger who paid attention to her.
I went through a repertoire of simple tricks—lights, sparks, fog, all the ones kids love. I’d learned all the ways to keep Elena and Clay’s twins amused when I baby-sat. Now that they’re school age, they want to learn the tricks ... and get royally pissed off when they can’t.
So I entertained the baby as Mom and the local cult dude moved to full-on screwing. When they started banging against the walls, the baby got concerned again. I did, too. The house was old and they were really going at it.
I picked up an ugly stuffed toy from the buggy and made it dance. The baby grabbed it and threw it. I knew this game. I picked it up and gave it back. She threw it, then chortled when the stupid grown-up fell for it again.
The toy looked homemade. Tiffany didn’t seem the type to lovingly sew toys for her baby. It was definitely an amateur job, with weird stitching along the seams. An older sibling? Whatever they’d stuffed it with, it wasn’t exactly soft and cuddly. It felt like ... dried herbs.
I caught a whiff of something that made my eyes fly open. I lifted the toy to my nose.
It was stuffed with blessed thistle. Most witches don’t use herbs outside of rituals, but blessed thistle used to be stuffed into sachets for protection and health. I think Wiccans still used it. I glanced toward the front hall. Was Tiffany Wiccan?
I looked closer at the toy and noticed the stitching wasn’t actually messy. It was symbolic. Special stitching for protection. Not Wiccan. Witch.
Now I knew why the baby had been calling me Mama when she saw the spells. Cody Radu wasn’t the spellcaster in the family. Tiffany was.
sixteen
Tiffany wasn’t the cuddles and cooing type. She got what she wanted and left with a box of cookies to excuse her visit. I suspected the Radu household ate a lot of cookies.
Was Tiffany punishing her husband for screwing around with girls like Ginny? Maybe. But whatever Cody’s hang-ups, I bet there was a touch of the Madonna/whore complex going on. Ginny and her ilk were for wall-shaking sex and Tiffany was for making babies and adorning his arm at company dinners. Only it turned out that Tiffany liked her share of wall-shaking, too. Alastair was a safe outlet—an outsider who was unlikely to ask for any commitment while he had a houseful of young women offering the same goodies.
It was all a little too soap-opera confusing for my brain right now, so I zeroed in on the part that really piqued my interest—finding out that I wasn’t the only witch in town.
BACK AT MY bike, I called Jesse to see if he had a maiden name for Tiffany. He did. Baker. Not exactly as uncommon as I hoped. I asked him to dig a little deeper and see where she was from, maybe get some family details.
“So you’ve got one witch,” he said when I explained. “Presumably married to another supernatural if she’s been showing him rituals. You’ve also got Santeria. Sounds like there’s more to this town than it seems.
My next call was to Paige. I still wasn’t telling her about the case, of course, but she’d be my best source of background on Tiffany.
“I have a local witch,” I said. “But she’s using outdated magic.”
“Which suggests she’s from a family that has slipped outside the network. Well, whatever network still exists for witches.”
I could hear the regret in her voice. Paige works hard to get that network running again, but after the witch-hunts, most witches took a “never again” attitude and disassociated themselves from their magic.
“Maybe,” I said. “But if it’s nearly useless magic, that screams Coven.”
Paige sighed. She’d grown up a Coven witch herself. She didn’t argue, though. The Coven was the worst offender when it came to keeping witches in the Dark Ages of magic, only allowing its members to use old and simplistic spells, like the light ball.
“Her name was Baker,” I said. “Tiffany Baker. She’s a few years older than you, so even if her family left the Coven, you should remember her.”
“I don’t. I’ll check the records, though.”
If Paige didn’t recognize the name, the Bakers hadn’t been part of the Coven, so I told her not to bother. I could handle this one.
I ARRIVED AT the McDonald’s twenty minutes late for my appointment. Cutting through the parking lot, I saw Cody Radu stalking out of the restaurant, another man hurrying along at his side, trying to talk to him.
Cody’s SUV was nearby, so I cast a blur spell, zipped around it, then cast a cover one.
“Every shred of evidence was supposed to be concealed,” Cody was saying as they approached. “That’s your job, Tommy.”
“Yes, and I’ve covered it. If this PI has dug up something, then we’ve got a leak. But that’s why I’m here—to throw her off the trail.”
“Then you’d better work fast. I can handle the bitch. She’s going after Tiff, though, and I won’t take that.”
Had Tiffany told him I’d confronted her? I remembered what Cody had said about me being in town a few days. Only hours later, Tiffany had accused me of coming to her house. Was somebody stalking them? Or had Cody and Tiffany just been under Bruyn’s magnifying glass too long?
“It’ll end,” Tommy said. “As your friend, I promise you it will. As your lawyer, I strongly suggest you get your ass back in that restaurant and wait for her.”
“She’s late.”
“She’s testing you. She’s trying to make you sweat and it’s working.”
Cody snarled something I couldn’t hear.
“Christ, buddy, cool it, okay? I know you’re worried about the shipment tonight, but it’s all under control. Just go back in that restaurant, and when we’re done here, we’ll hit Lula’s place for a couple of hours.” A chuckle. “That’ll get your mind off things.”
“I’m not going back in the restaurant,” Cody said. “I do not give any smart-ass piece of pussy—”
“Hey, guys,” I said walking around the front of the SUV. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t have a cell number to call.” I held my hand out to Tommy, whom I recognized as the frat brother who’d posted the occult ritual pics on Facebook. “Savannah Levine.”
He didn’t respond right away, too busy ogling to notice my outstretched hand. Then he took it in a firm shake. “Thompson Harris. Cody’s lawyer.”
I grinned. “So I’m already lawyer-worthy? Cool. Let’s go inside then. I’m starving.”
* * *
“HAVE YOU EVER done any modeling?” Tommy asked as I bit into my Big Mac.
It was a line I got a lot. I think every tall, thin, reasonably attractive woman does.
“Not eating like that, she doesn’t,” Cody muttered, waving a hand at my fries, burger, and milk shake.
“I eat this way because I still can,” I said. “After a certain age, my metabolism will hit the brakes and I’ll be stuck with that shit.” I waved at Cody’s salad.
Tommy laughed. “Cody was right. You are feisty.”
“Feisty wasn’t the word I heard him use. As for modeling, let’s just say not in the traditional sense.” I flashed a wicked grin. “But a girl’s gotta pay the rent somehow.”
I bullshitted like a pro, giving Tommy enough hints to send him looking for booty shots online when he should be doing a standard background check. I’m sure he’d tell himself it was business, digging up something to discredit me. Probably even bill Cody for the time he spent porn surfing.
Flirting also kept him distracted enough not to jump in with objections when I questioned Cody. Not that it helped much. Cody knew better than to incriminate himself and I didn’t have enough details yet to ask about the fight with Claire. Instead we spent the time circling, each trying to get a peek at the other’s cards.
Finally Cody got fed up and went to sulk in the bathroom. He was gone a while, doubtless hoping I’d give up and leave. I flirted some more with Tommy, which seemed to convince him I wasn’t anything m
ore than a pretty face. Screwing potential: high. Threat potential: zilch.
I’ll admit to being a little nervous when we left. Maybe nervous isn’t the right word. Cautious. The back road from here to Columbus was long and empty, and if Cody pulled out right behind me, I’d be tempted to take the highway, rather than play road warrior again with his SUV. But apparently he was taking Tommy up on his offer to visit Lula’s. They left in separate vehicles, and headed for the highway.
I was zooming down the empty back road, the wind whistling past, when my bike did a little bump-bump. I glanced in my rearview mirror, thinking I’d hit a pothole. Another bump. Then the rear tire wobbled. I barely had time to think Oh, shit! and the tire blew with a deafening bang.
seventeen
The bike started veering toward the center line. I wrenched it the other way, desperately steering for the side of the road, hitting it, dust and gravel flying up. The bike went into a slide. I held on as tight as I could, bracing myself for that final bone-jarring topple.
I lay in the gravel at the side of the road, bike pinning my leg down, panic arcing through me. Then, slowly, I heaved the bike off me. I braced for a wave of pain, but it didn’t come. I felt like I’d been thrown out of a van. Nothing screamed “I’m broken,” though.
A clean lay-down, which is the most you can hope for. Still holding the bike up, I slid out from under it and rose, stretching and patting myself down. My leather jacket was scratched to shit. My jeans were studded with pebbles. I was okay, though, which is more than I could say for my bike.
I assessed the damage—dings and scrapes and twisted handlebars—and decided we’d both gotten away pretty damned good. Which wouldn’t keep me from kicking Cody Radu’s ass when I got hold of him. Sulking in the bathroom? No, he’d been sabotaging my bike and—
A silver vehicle crested the hill. I froze, but it was only a car. I let out a sigh of relief, then a string of curses as the stupid bitches in the front seat gawked at me, not even slowing to see if I needed help.
Waking the Witch woto-11 Page 11
